


Know Your Name

by OnionGremlin



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Meet-Cute, kinnie on main with my own got dam oc, t for language, yes im posting original writing on ao3 idk what else to do with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnionGremlin/pseuds/OnionGremlin
Summary: Brooke doesn't know how to talk to girls.





	Know Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> look idk where else to post this and ao3 has an original works tag so here i am  
> its lesbians

All in all, working at Max’s Place was not a bad gig. It wasn’t what she wanted to spend her life doing, by any means, but it was a good place with the best steady pay she could get as a water elemental with a jazz studies major, and her employers were friendly, and the drinks were free on the job. 

It was always warm in Max’s Place, even when storms raged outside or snow blanketed the town. The smells of coffee and caramel and chocolate and fresh-from-the-oven pastries always filled the air, and J always smiled and made a little conversation from her workstation under the back window. The regulars knew her by name, now, and didn’t seem to mind when she stumbled over her words - especially when they always left with a drink warmed with magic and just the right amount of caffeine. 

There was a scuffed little brown-wood piano against one corner of Max’s Place. Occasionally, a kid (usually the little one with the big sloppy smile that Max and J had a soft spot for) would pluck out some notes on the black keys, cutting through the buzz of ambient noise with a chipper melody. Maybe once or twice in a month, a couple of community college students hyped up on caffeine would play an Old Earth song with three hands on worn ivory. 

Today, as Brooke smoothly went about her work, flowing from one station to another to throw together drinks and collect pastries for the somewhat steady flow of customers at the counter, she didn’t notice a girl and her dog enter the cafe. She didn’t notice when the kid on the piano bench stopped plucking at the high notes. She didn’t notice the dog sit attentively at the side of the bench, or the girl adjust her stance at the keys with a practiced precision. 

She did notice as an Old Earth song (All I Ask of You, Phantom of the Opera, 1986 ECE, her mental music library supplied) began to play. Her head jerked up, splashing with the motion, and her eyes locked on the figure at the piano. 

She played with skill that could only come from years of practice - Brooke was a musician, Brooke’s mama was a musician, Brooke’s brother in all but blood was a performer, she knew all too well the dedication that this kind of product took - and she played the song delicately, every note its own song, rising and falling with the story behind it. 

Brooke was in awe, and so was the entire one-person line in front of the counter, so no one really minded that she was frozen in the middle of reaching for the whipped cream canister. 

The cafe white noise faded to near-silence as the song continued, changed, shifted to an upbeat ragtime melody that Brooke didn’t recognize. The player’s fingers practically flew across the keys with practiced ease, the notes light and chipper. The big, bear-like, three-eyed dog at her side thumped his tail to the beat, and the song buzzed through Brooke’s head. 

In what felt like moments, the song changed again - now a steady beat, staccato and accents, and Brooke held back a giggle as she realized it was one of her mama’s songs (Catch These Hands, Catch This Beat; Peggy Andrews, 143 NE). The piano played through a verse, a chorus, the last refrain, then finished with a last, low note. The dog gave a low  _ boof _ and the brief silence of the cafe’s customers ended with a few scattered claps and low chatter. Brooke shook her head, sending water splashing away, splashing back, and she grabbed the whipped cream to finish the waiting customer’s drink. 

Whipped cream, chocolate star-shaped sprinkles, a dash of magic, and the drink was in the customer’s hand, and Brooke was looking up to the next person in line, and then looking past where there was no next person in line, to the woman standing up from the piano bench.

Brooke didn’t have a heart, technically, but the magic that thrummed in her chest stuttered as the woman turned towards the counter. 

She was fairly tall - taller than Brooke usually was - and a little bigger than average, for a human. Blonde hair was swept to the side on top of her head, cloudy ice-blue eyes stared straight ahead, and a lazy half-smile was on her lips. (Beautiful, beautiful,  _ beautiful.) _

(She was also emanating a strong soft-butch energy and Brooke was  _ here for it. _ )

Magic tingled at the tips of her fingers as the woman, led by her dog (she noticed the red vest, now, half-hidden by long brown fur, and the metal harness attached), approached the counter. She wouldn’t be surprised if steam rose from her cheeks, considering how warm they felt. 

“Hey, y’all do something hot with cinnamon in it?” 

The woman’s voice was warm and friendly and made Brooke’s face boiling hot - she hoped more than assumed, at this point, that she couldn’t see her, because if she  _ could _ see the bright magenta that Brooke was sure colored her face at this point, Brooke was fairly certain she would die on the spot. 

“We - um - yes! One min - one minute, please!” Brooke stammered, then bolted through the door to the kitchen area of the cafe, completely panicked. (She couldn’t talk to girls in grade school, couldn’t talk to girls in high school, could barely talk to girls in college, what could anyone really expect, at this point?) 

Max wasn’t there - right, he had left to get stuff at the Cash and Carry, of course he wouldn’t be there - so Brooke had the whole kitchen to pace and freak out in peace, if only for a moment. 

“Oh my gods, she’s gorgeous,” she cried the moment the door closed behind her, trying in vain to keep her voice low. “Shit, I’m so gay, godsdammit, fuck.” (The cursing, at least, was kept under her breath.) 

She paced between the mixer on one counter and the ovens against the opposite wall, steam rising from her head and arms. 

“Think, Brooke, what would Lance do?” she whined, folding her arms across her chest as she walked. Her hands became less defined as she worried, melting into blobs. 

She knew exactly what her brother would do - Lance would be cool and suave and too-smooth, with compliments and pick-up lines and winks and poses that no one else could pull off. 

There was no way in hell she could do that. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” she muttered, continuing her pacing, shaking her head. “Okay, okay, okay. Gorgeous talented woman waiting for her coffee. What would Lance tell  _ me _ to do…?” Her voice is low, strained, this is not something she does often. 

The answer came easily, though, with decades of knowing her brother. She might be useless in social situations, but he definitely wasn’t, and his (definitely teasing) voice in her head was enough for the moment. 

“Right, okay, give her my number, don’t be creepy, right, right, right, got it.” She took a deep breath, hummed a calming song her mama taught her, cooled her boiling face, reformed her hands, stepped back into the cafe. 

The pianist was still there, leaning against the counter on one hand, far more cool than should be allowed. Her dog had its nose up on the counter, staring at her curiously as she emerged. 

“Sorry, I, uh, had to - had to get the cinnamon?” Brooke winced visibly at the obvious lie.

The woman didn’t seem to notice, instead smiling a little bigger and standing up straighter. “Cool! Uh, can I get a medium of whatever you’ve got in mind?” 

Brooke nodded, too fast, then let out a high-pitched, “sure!” as she punched in the order and stuttered out a total. She charged the woman’s card and handed it back, pretending she didn’t feel her hand melt a little as her fingers brushed the pianist’s, then spun around to prepare  _ the best drink she’d ever made, this better be good, don’t mess this up. _

(Her hands wobbled as she poured, and the whipped cream and cinnamon sugar on top were uneven, but she managed without spilling and counted that as a victory.) 

Not trusting her voice, she grabbed the marker by the register and shakily wrote her phone number on the lid. (Her handwriting was already atrocious in most circumstances, common script not designed for creatures like her, who usually went with a few stubby fingers. She begged the gods to let it be readable, just this once.) 

Writing done, marker capped, drink handed over to the soft butch angel. She smiled, too big and genuine for Brooke to handle, and steam rose from her hands. “Thanks,” she said, and turned to sit down. 

“Yeah, uh, thanks - I mean - “ Brooke cut herself off, face burning, and put both hands on the counter to stabilize herself as her legs wobbled under her. 

It was very difficult to forget how weak she was to pretty girls. 

She tried to focus on her work, once the beautiful stranger had sat down to have her drink. She stole glances, of course, followed by a ducked head and rosy cheeks and steam off the top of her head. She was acutely aware of the lack of notifications from her phone (though of course there wouldn’t be any, every time she checked, the pianist hadn’t had her phone out at all, simply sipping her drink with one hand on her dog’s head. 

The low-level worry that gnawed at her grew as the woman stood, walking with her dog towards the exit. No phone. Was she not interested? Disappointment sank deep in her chest - of course, that was fine, no big deal, no obligation (but she was just so beautiful, talented, and - ).

It was when the woman bumped into the trash can and dropped her empty coffee cup inside that Brooke realized she was a complete and total idiot. 

She hesitated, for a moment, but then the woman was opening the door, and walking out, and it was now or never. Lance’s voice in her head encouraging her, she bolted out from behind the counter, chasing the woman out the door. 

“W-wait!” she croaked out, and the woman stopped, turning back. Brooke caught up with her just outside the front window, legs shaking, hands melting. “I, uh, wanted to - I tried to - you didn’t see my -  _ gods damned _ \- “ Her hands flew up to hide her face, and a high-pitched whine escaped her. 

“Take your time,” the woman said, her voice holding a hint of laughter. Brooke’s face turned a darker pink. 

“I just - I, I, I - “ Brooke cut herself off, took a moment, and started again, the magic in her chest thudding a rhythmic  _ gay, gay, gay.  _ “I wrote my phone number on - on - on your coffee cup, and I don’t - don’t think you saw it.” 

The woman was silent for a moment, and Brooke peaked out nervously through her hands. She looked distinctly amused, the corners of her mouth curling up further. A light blush colored her cheeks, and Brooke took the chance to have just a little bit of (gay, gay, very gay) hope. 

“Well, probably not. I wouldn’t say I see anything, most of the time,” the woman said, and her voice was light, still friendly, with a hint of a laugh (and Brooke very suddenly, very desperately needed to hear that laugh for real). 

“I - um - I. Guessed,” Brooke stammered, lowering her hands from her face. “I, I - shit, sorry, I’m a real dumb lesbian.” The words escaped against her will, and a significant portion of her face evaporated. 

A loud laugh from the woman, and Brooke was thanking every deity she could name because that laugh was worth every second of embarrassment, big and happy and warm and  _ gods she was so gay _ . 

“I kinda got that impression,” the woman said, her smile big on her face and in her voice and oops, Brooke’s legs were wobbling again, threatening to topple her over. 

“Can I - I mean, um,” Brooke’s voice wavered, but she pushed through, chest pounding. “Can we - would you like my number?” Her voice shot up about three octaves at the end, there, but she got the words out - a small victory.

The woman laughed again, and Brooke was  _ soaring _ . “Maybe I should know your name first, hm?” 

_ Know your name, know your name, know your name  _ \- the words flew in her mind, until she registered, and shouted - “Oh! Um, Brooke. Brooke Irving.” At least she managed to get her voice to a normal volume near the end, there. 

The woman smiled, and Brooke would be floating if the weight of her boots didn’t hold her to the sidewalk. “Nice to meet’cha, Brooke Irving.” (The way the woman said her name, with a teasing lilt, had Brooke wanting to hear it over and over again.) “Amy Martinelli.” The woman - Amy - reached into her pocket, pulling out and unfolding a phone with a flick of her wrist. Once it was unlocked, she held it out. When Brooke hesitated, Amy raised an eyebrow. “You wanna give me your number?” 

“Right!” Brooke squeaked, and reached out for the phone, accidentally enveloping Amy’s entire hand with hers. Amy started, her hand jerking back, and Brooke blurted - “sorry! Sorry, sorry, I - sorry.” 

Amy laughed again, rubbing her hand. “No worries, water girl, I’m into it. You hold the hand of every pretty girl you meet?” 

Brooke flushed, turning thoroughly bright pink. “O - only the prettiest,” she found herself saying, and she thanked Lance’s influence silently, profusely. 

Amy blushed a little at that, too, and Brooke wanted to sing, but she settled for a nervous giggle and entering her name and number in the phone. She held it back out, and when Amy didn’t notice, said “Here. Um, your phone.” 

Amy took it and sent her a grin that had Brooke doing internal backflips. “Cool. I’ll text you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she replied, voice four octaves too high. “Great! Yeah, I’ll - I’ll text you!” 

Amy snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure you will.” She smiled one more time, then started to turn away, 

“I’m sorry,” Brooke blurted, making Amy stop and turn back, eyebrow raised. “I’m useless at - I don’t know how to - gods, I’m so bad at talking to girls,” she finished, her voice rushed. 

Amy smirked. “I can tell. Don’t worry, water girl, I think it’s cute.” 

_ Cute, cute, she thinks I’m cute?  _ Brooke’s train of thought was derailed, at this point, and all she could do was stutter out a “great, thanks, bye!” before turning on her heel and ducking back into the cafe. 

She heard Amy laugh again, outside, and say something inaudible (to her dog?), and when Brooke turned back to look out the window, Amy was gone. 

When she managed to recover herself - reforming wobbly fingers and standing up straight, adjusting her shirt, brushing off her pants with too-hot hands - she walked back behind the counter, tidying things up to keep her hands busy, though her thoughts were racing. 

A short whistle sounded from J’s table, and she looked up. She was sending Brooke a look that said she had watched the whole thing, and she was  _ very  _ amused. Brooke flushed, and J smiled wider. 

**_Get her number?_ ** J signed at her, and Brooke groaned. 

**_Made a fool of myself_ ** , Brooke replied, thick fingers stumbling over the simplified signs.  **_But gave her mine._ **

J grinned, shooting her a thumbs-up and turning back to her work. Brooke sighed, turning around to wallow in her embarrassment and gay thoughts. 

Before she succumbed to the wallowing, though, she pulled out her own phone, flipping it open and sending a quick text. 

_ Brooker _

(12:34) lance i owe you my entire ass and life 

It wasn’t long at all before her phone buzzed with a -

_ Lance Lots  _

(12:35) I know and I appreciate the recognition B but what in tarnation did I do now 

Brooke shoved her phone back in her pocket as she saw a customer walk in the door. “Welcome to Max’s Place!” she said, ignoring the buzzing in her pocket and the  _ that might be her _ in her head to do her job instead. 

(If she went about the rest of her day with a skip in her step and a pink tinge to her face, no one pointed it out.) 

**Author's Note:**

> comments appreciated  
> and i'll probably keep posting stuff about these characters so


End file.
